“There was a smell of wood smoke in the air and an edge of ice on the easterly wind that promised snow, and the tangled gardens looked bleak and lifeless, hiding the sweet juices of spring in their winter hibernation. “Come on, God damn it,” he grumbled as a blue Peugeot estate car crawled slowly up the rutted drive and parked next to his Fiat. A florid-faced man in a heavy tweed overcoat stepped out, locking the door firmly behind him, though God knew who he imagined was going to steal it, Mike... thought irritably; the villa was completely isolated on top of its hill. It was a three-mile trek to the village where he’d stopped to pick up some provisions of coffee, milk, crusty bread straight from the baker’s ovens, a large piece of Parmesan cheese, slices of ham, and several bottles of hearty red wine. Enough to last him through a smallish siege should the snows come and bury him in the Villa Castelletto. “Mr. Preston?” the florid man called. Who the hell else was he expecting, Mike thought sourly, frozen after his half-hour wait in the cold.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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